Chaos
by Angelic Reprobate
Summary: "She is Atlas. She is Chaos. She is the end." The good guys winning doesn't mean much when you're not on their side. It means even less when the world they fought for shouldn't have been saved. A look at the life of a Death Eater child following the war.


Chaos

 **-I don't own Harry Potter**

* * *

"Chaos was the law of nature; Order was the dream of man."  
-Henry Adams

She stands on the Minister's balcony surveying all that he lords over. Her sleek hair is pinned back, French-tips caress the mahogany rail, a small ring winks in the candlelight. There is not a single speck of dirt on her tailored suit.

He leaves crumbs on her sleeve as he clumsily grasps her hand. She can feel his eyes lusting after the mask she took an hour to paint upon her face.

"Do you know why Voldemort failed, Minister?"

His hand jerks before he recites the approved response. The good guys always win. He raises his stout wand as if saluting the heroes.

"No, Minister. It is because he tried to tame that which could never be tamed. He made the same mistake as _the good guys_."

* * *

The matron rules the orphanage with softly spoken words and careful routine. She is slight of frame, easily overcome by even the youngest of children.

The others all love her. They are the special ones, she dotes on the brats and strokes their heads when they are plagued by dreams of the demon with the snake face.

Matron hates Natalia Birch. Birch hates her with equal fervour. She can feel Matron's eyes condemning her for the sins of her mother.

The soft pages of history lay out her mother's crimes. Birch has memorised the name of every victim, every child of every victim as if they were a prayer.

"Your mother was a monster. You deserve to feel the weight of her guilt."

The words soaked in poison soothe her to sleep.

Matron leaves to read fairy tales to the precious orphan Muggleborns.

* * *

The castle has never felt like home. The scars on the walls, the ghosts' tales and the memorials in every corridor only add to the ever increasing guilt.

Birch's slate eyes search the forest hidden behind the Headmistresses. The elder witch's jaw clenches.

"I'm sorry Miss Birch, I truly am, but the Ministry feels that all students must learn about the war. Especially, children like you. I'm afraid the curriculum cannot be changed."

She wants to scream that she knows about the war. She wants to utter the names of her mother's victims, prove that she knows it was wrong, immoral, cruel. She wants to cry that all she is asking for is a reprieve from the judgement of her peers. She can feel eyes staring through her as she rages in her head. Twinkling blue orbs regard her from behind half-moon spectacles.

She breathes out slowly and takes her leave. Her bag did not feel this heavy when she entered.

* * *

The Ministry had decided to educate children on the horrors of war long before seventh year. This is just the second class of many. The fifteen year-olds stare mesmerised at the contorted bodies on the projector. It is like a train wreck, one cannot help but stare.

"That's the Cruciatus Curse, sir. It was common among Death Eaters. Bellatrix Lestrange used it on the Longbottoms."

She can feel their eyes burning holes in her back. Malice, disgust, anger, fear. She sits straighter, adopts a haughty mien and struggles to maintain it as her Professor mimics his students' emotions. The burden is hers alone.

The air is heavy and stale. It always is when the past is dragged up.

* * *

Slytherin common room hasn't been warm for at least fifteen years, either in temperature or in tone. They are no longer proud, they no longer strive to be something more. They do what Slytherins do best; they hide. They follow the strict regime instituted by the victors.

"Those are dangerous words, Birch. Things will get better, we just need to wait."

"I'm sure that's what the Muggleborns said before we slaughtered them. I'm not saying we're better than them, but we're certainly not less."

They all turn away, afraid her frustration is catching. She slumps in her seat. The weight of revolution becoming too much to bear.

* * *

It's an old detention and one that makes little sense. _Don't go into the forbidden forest, unless you're being punished_ , oh yes. Very clever. They do love their rules.

The hushed murmurs of her fellow detainees have long since been replace by the hush of the dried leaves. There are no eyes gazing upon her. She is alone. She always is.

A small stone glints on the ground.

* * *

She expected more. Someone grand, someone horrific, someone almighty. The grotesque foetus is raw and fragile. Twig-like fingers clutch at air. Tiny spiders scurry away from it. The next breeze could turn it to ash.

She shouldn't have expected more from a man who ruined his soul.

"Why did you call me, Natalia Lestrange?"

It is a name everyone knows but no one utters. It is the name that cloaks her in fear. She despises the one who gave it to her.

"Why did you fail?"

The question has been plaguing her mind since she knew the meaning of the word. She had immersed herself in the past from the moment she could read. Devoured all she could about the rebel group that took over England. Every soldier, man and beast, was accounted for.

"The odds were stacked in your favour. You couldn't lose, but you did. Why?"

Its fingers continue to open and close, grasping the night. Its chest does not move. Eyes do not open. Lips do not part.

"They had something I did not. Love…"

"…is a load of bullshit! Love doesn't win battles. It's pointless, unnecessary. You didn't love my mother, yet here I am."

"Why did you really call me?"

"Because if there is one person who can understand me, it's you. I have lived your life because you failed. I used to want to fix this world, but you fucked it up beyond repair."

There is no breeze, the spiders have long since fled. The moon has pulled a cloud in front of her face. The world waits with baited breath for the final verdict.

"The world was ruined before me. We tried to bend it to our will, force it to work for us. That is not how the world operates. Creation is pointless, destruction is all that is left."

The wind rushes through the trees and the demon that haunts the dreams of magical children vanishes.

* * *

Her burden is not sin. Her anger is not for her mother. Her burden is the world. Her anger is for restrictions.

She is Atlas.

She is Chaos.

She is the end.

* * *

The Minister looks into her eyes too late. His eyes are glassy before he registers the void in her own.

Her hair breaks free of its confines as the storm brews. Her nails are talons splintering the barrier between the Minister and his subjects. The ring on her finger is cracked down the centre, a triangle is etched into the gem. Her suit tears as wind destroys buildings and flings shrapnel.

She feels their eyes gazing upon her in awe. The magic that has been tamed for far too long runs free.

Natalia Lestrange twists the ring on her finger 3 times. He stands behind her, watching. She is never alone.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello loyal readers, guess what time it is! That's right, it's time for me to be doing assignments. Instead you get this.  
Yes, this is an OC. I do apologise to those who don't like them.  
**

 **As with all of my stories, I'm the only person who has read this as of posting time. I also tend to post these as soon as I'm happy with them.**

 **Please review, they make me happy.**


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